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Posts by Sophie

GROWING INDEPENDENCE

By: Sophie B. Hawkins

This evening, Dashiell and I walked onto the beach with dry branches and matches, kindle from the 7/11, a blanket and some water. The sky was as bright as laughing children, the sand warm, and the ocean waves as relaxed as horses turned out in the field, swishing their tails, snorting, and hanging their heads in the long grass.

We found a hidden spot near the dunes and dug a deep,

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Intimacy

Hello people of the light, how are you? I am fine. I shake my head, how does one blog totally honestly, intimately; knowing intimacy has no integrity on the Internet. It’s a form of thought promotion. And yet in writing books, stories, novels, songs there is no false idea or hiding of the truth, because, speaking for myself, art is an honest search for the truth. Art could be an abstract audit of the balancing act between one’s heart,

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Birthday Blog

You know when people say about childhood, “it goes by so fast”? And when they say that I think, ‘I’m sitting at the table of this child’s life until there’s no place set for me, and then I’ll never pass up an invitation to come back and feast.’

We celebrated Dashiell’s fifth birthday and I remembered the day he came out of my body, how I felt when I saw him for the first time.

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Hello near winter babies…

Hello near winter babies, hello from Fla. Crimson and Prussian blue scarves stretch across the pearly dome of atmosphere, sky, un endless sky, how lucky we are to catch the light of that long ago sun.

We played last night for the pussycats. Isn’t that an androgynous word? For the Pussies and the Cats. More Pussies than Cats, to be sure, and it was a good show for all of us creative folk.

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I am sitting in my New York apartment

Hello People Of The Light, how are you? I am sitting in my New York apartment hearing sirens tweak the night and mufflers like didgereedoos charge down the open avenue. That’s how I know what time it is, by how fast a motorcycle can fly by. And that’s the time I’m finally still, my heart slipping into the locomotion of my dishwasher in the kitchen. My new old kitchen. My new old friend. My new old mother.

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Life and limb –

Hello friends, people of the light, octupuses clutching arrays of truth with each arm. From Gillette, Wy, to San Fransisco, Ca, I am meeting wonderful yous, who are creative, funny, soulful and generous with your sparks of happiness.
Here’s what I feel; for we who live on the limbs of adventure, for what is adventure but persuing a dream, life is topsy turvy. Life is overwhealming in the constant slaps of cold water on our faces,

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Every Morning….

Every morning I drink in his voice with my ears. He’s always singing, with that wandering, reedy tone, or humming, the songs of his soul. I’ll remember this forever, When he’s flown away, when I’m flying away, I’ll remember the liberation of being his mother . Dashiell was eating and said it was better than God, I said that’s pretty good, then. What does God feel like? He asked, trust, I said, that everything is okay,

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So, you asked me about the social network…

You asked me what it is like living within the social media explosion, since I was around before most people even had personal computers, circa 1992, and I’ve been wondering why you asked, and why the question bothers me so much. In some way I feel you asked my age, or some personal question for which the answer is apparent, but the meaning is not. And yet I don’t want to put a wedge between the curious and the cat,

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Happy Birthday Bob Dylan

My father was sparing with his comments but one day he quoted Bob Dylan, “I wish that for just one day you could stand in my shoes, you’d know what a drag it is to see you.” Positively 4th st. I walked out of the apartment and said to myself, “That’s what I am”, a song writer. I was 9 years old and the city was mine, the music was written for it, and the harmonica bounced like light off the wind shields and store fronts.

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Wedding Day

You won’t believe this, because I can’t believe it myself, but this Royal Wedding is making me smile. I feel there is a rebirth of something classic, like the way Virginia Woolf writes about Big Ben, in Mrs Dalloway, and Orlando, that clock which is eternally pulling us into the present-or bust.

When I used to read Jane Austin I squirmed because I wanted that world to be true, but thought only she was true,

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